eye out?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Is Judge Moore’s father healthy?” she asked Kovac.
“No. On his way out. Carey is his only child-”
Liska burned a look into him and mouthed
“If she’s out of the picture, then the old man’s money would pass to his only grandchild, her daughter, Lucy. Lucy’s five years old. Moore would have control of whatever she inherited.”
“This is all a neat theory,” Dawes said. “What do you have to back it up?”
“My years of experience and wisdom,” Kovac said. “Get me a warrant and I’ll prove it. A search warrant for the house and a warrant for Dickhead’s financials.”
“And what are you going to use to get a warrant, Detective?” Dawes asked. “Your good looks?”
“And charming personality.”
Dawes rolled her eyes. “What have you got, Nikki?”
“Nothing much. I haven’t been able to confirm Bobby Haas’s alibi or to break it. One strange thing: When I was talking to him today, he told me that Marlene Haas was his stepmother, and his real mother died of cancer. But when I spoke to the caseworker from social services, she told me the kid’s adopted, that his birth mother committed suicide, and Wayne Haas’s first wife died from a broken neck when she fell down the basement stairs with a basket of laundry.”
“So nobody had cancer?” Elwood said.
Liska shook her head. “No. That’s a pretty weird thing to lie about, wouldn’t you say?”
“How old is this kid?” Tippen asked.
“Seventeen.”
“And he’s had that much violent tragedy in his life?” Dawes asked. “Maybe he just wanted to eliminate one of them. How would a kid feel, having all of that in his background? The only thing my fifteen-year-old son wants is to be exactly like everybody else his age.
“This boy probably feels like people think he’s some kind of a freak. At least saying his mother died of cancer is something other kids have a frame of reference for.”
Liska looked at Kovac. He knew her well enough to see all the subtle signs that something about this kid was bothering her.
He shrugged. “You can’t arrest the kid for saying his mother died of cancer when she didn’t. And if you can’t get a witness to put him at the parking ramp, you can’t pin the assault on him.
“I’m putting my money on the future ex.”
“I’m sure you are,” Liska said.
Kovac lowered his eyebrows.
“I’m taking Dempsey,” Tippen said. “He’s openly crazy. He’s made threats. What’s beating a woman with a club to a guy who might be willing to torture someone with an electric carving knife?”
“No wagering in my presence, please,” Dawes announced. “Let’s all get back to it. We’ve got to make something happen.”
“Any word on Karl Dahl?” Kovac asked as he rose from his seat.
She shook her head. “The man has vanished. The dogs never got on a scent. No one credible has seen him. We’re getting the usual tips from psychics and religious fanatics and people who just call because they’re lonely and they want someone to talk to. And lots of dead ends. I’ve got uniforms running all over town, chasing down bald-headed men.”
“He’s the kind of guy who lives off the radar,” Tippen said. “A shadow figure on society’s fringes.”
“I thought that was you,” Liska said, standing up.
Tippen gave her a mean look. “You’re very short and perky.”
“Fuck you.”
As they all moved toward the door, Dawes nodded for Kovac to hang behind.
“You have that strong a feeling about Judge Moore’s husband?”
“You’re only seeing the tip of the iceberg of my hatred for this jerk.”
“I’ll make sure we get the security video from the hotel bar ASAP. Maybe we can get a line on this mystery man. We can at least compare the video to the one from the parking ramp. See if it could be the same guy.”
“If I could get Moore ’s financials, maybe I could find evidence of payoffs for the hit.”
“I don’t see a judge giving us a warrant based on what we have, Sam. Do you think Judge Moore would swear out a complaint on him?”
“For what? If being a lousy husband was against the law, I’d be doing twenty-five to life,” Kovac said. “Besides, I don’t think she would do it. She has her daughter to consider. And her reputation. I don’t see her filing a complaint on some half-baked accusation just to get the Dickhead in our box so we can break him.”
Dawes sighed. “Do you have any excuse to bring him in for questioning?”
Kovac thought of the file folder he’d locked in the trunk of his car. He’d only glimpsed through it, but he knew there was plenty of evidence of Moore ’s infidelity. But if he brought David Moore in for that, then he tipped Carey’s hand.
Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
“I could ask him to come in for a noncustodial interview,” he said.
“Will he cooperate?”
“No,” he conceded. “He won’t cooperate. The first thing he’ll do is squeal for a lawyer, and then we’re fucked.”
He looked away and sighed. “I don’t know what to say, Boss. I’d throw the jerk into a snake pit if I could, but if we bring him in on what I’ve got, that just gives him time to circle the wagons, tip off the doer.”
Dawes nodded. “All right. We can put a tail on him.”
“You can get the overtime for that?”
“Already blessed from on high. The brass wants this doer’s head on a silver platter.”
“I mean to make that happen,” Kovac said. “I’ll even stick an apple in his mouth for the ceremony.”
31
THE TRIAL WAS over. It hadn’t come out well for Kenny Scott, Esquire, but justice had been done. Swift and terrible.
Stan was shaking, sweating, exhilarated. There was still a small part of his brain that was horrified and terrified of the other emotions roaring through him. But that part was smaller and smaller, weaker and weaker. With justice came strength. Might with right.
Stan’s justice was pure and simple. There were no games, no loopholes, no getting off on a technicality. There was only right and wrong.
For the first time in his life, Stan Dempsey felt powerful.
To any casual observer going down the street, Kenny Scott simply wasn’t at home. Stan had turned off the television before he left. He had taken Kenny Scott’s car and parked it a block away, then walked back to his truck.
If his former colleagues discovered Kenny Scott too quickly, they would have a target area to look for him, and the intensity of the search would be fierce. Stan couldn’t have them find him before his job was done.
He calmly drove to another neighborhood and parked his uncle’s truck. In the back, under the camper shell, he ate a couple of bologna sandwiches with slices of midget gherkins in them and drank some coffee from his thermos.
He didn’t think about what he had just done. He didn’t try to recall the panic in the lawyer’s eyes, the screams the man had to swallow behind the duct tape that covered his mouth.
The rush the memory of meting out punishment gave was a thing unique to criminals, to serial killers, to men like Karl Dahl. That reaction belonged to the criminals who indulged in cruelty because it excited them. For those men, the memories were as important as the crime itself. They would relive their exploits over and over in their
